


After the Fall

by phoenixhowl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixhowl/pseuds/phoenixhowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Robin <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fall

The limp had returned.

It was no wonder, really. John had not been out properly in a while. Not since the last time he visited the graveyard, that's for sure. It must have been days, weeks, he did not know. Time pretty much went past him as he padded through their flat, his flat now, his step faltering every now and then.

Mrs. Hudson had taken pity to him, and provided necessities; she kept him company, even when it turned out they would be both drinking tea in silence, with the telly chattering on in the background. It didn't do much to chase away the desolation, but it was still better to have someone near. When he was alone, he felt as empty as the apartment, with only the dull drum of his heartbeat and the noise of London's streets to chase away the quiet.

He needed to pack himself together, if only for a bit. Only enough to get himself through the day, to get himself back to work, to be able to handle the simplest social interactions. He was aware of that. Rationally, he knew it needed to happen. He couldn't rely on his landlady to keep taking care of him, no matter how kind and sweet she was at times. It simply wouldn't do.

There had been denial; Sherlock couldn't be dead, he was too clever, too full of himself to actually commit suicide. John must have missed something, surely this all had been part of a plan, and Sherlock would come back to him.

He didn't.

Anger followed, pleas followed. He had begged, screamed, shouted, prayed, and Sherlock had not come back to him. There had been a grave, a tombstone. He had seen it and touched it, spoken to it as he outed his wish one last time; don't be dead, come back.

And still, nothing.

John had to drag himself on to acceptance. He was a doctor, he knew how it worked. So when there was nothing edible left in the house, he had stumbled back up to his room and clothed himself. Instead of hanging around the house in the same shirt and pair of jeans, he was going out to get himself some fresh air and groceries. More importantly, he was going to exercise that damn leg; a stroll to the nearest Tesco would be a good start.

It was dull and grey out, clouds packing thickly together; maybe it would be raining on his way back, but he still pressed on, his nostrils flaring as the smell of the London fog hit him. Pointedly ignoring anyone who might point his way or whisper behind their hands, he got himself what he needed, immediately remembering himself to pick something up for his landlady as well. She deserved something after having put up with his sorry arse, or so he reasoned.

Still not quite up with having to deal with judgemental cashiers, or even worse, a curious one, he decided to deal with a self-checkout machine. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best option for him, despite his past experiences.

Moments later he severely regretted his decision; the damned thing kept beeping, didn't accept his card, and he was quite near completely losing his temper over a contraption, but his concentration was torn away by a gentle scrape of the throat.

“Take my card.”

The words cut deep, deeper than he had expected, and he was quite sure his skin had paled visibly, because the stranger was suddenly looking concerned. Bright eyes narrowed at him, sizing him up, a strong hand reaching out tentatively to steady him. “Are you alright?”

“I-I.. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, thank you,” he breathed, blinking a few times. It had just been a memory; that's all Sherlock was now, a memory. “You just.. surprised me.”

The blond huffed a laugh, and John quickly assessed him; tall, six feet or over. Square shoulders, rigid stance, reminiscent of the military. The man could hurt him if he wanted to, but that didn't seem the case. He didn't look too good, though. No, he looked good, but not well. Feverish.

But if he offered help, well. It was better than having to wait for any employee. Stepping aside, he motioned for the other to step in and work his magic, because he certainly wasn't going to work out how the bloody thing worked. Updating his blog was trouble enough for him, really. Luckily the stranger didn't seem to have the same idiotic trouble as he had, and before he knew it there were plastic bags pushed in his hands, and he accepted them with a blink of his eyes.

“I'll need to pay you back,” he uttered, but the blond waved his hand, stopping his words.

“You really don't need to-”

“Then at least let me have a look at that fever,” John said sternly, demandingly, straightening himself up to his full height in an attempt to seem authoritative. He would never reach the man's stature, but it felt good to stand tall after having slouched through 221B for days at an end.

“It's really just a cold,” the man protested, and John cocked an eyebrow. “Really? And how long have you been having this 'cold'? You better get it checked out, before you wind up with pneumonia, or worse.”

“I outrank you, Watson, and I'm saying it's a cold,” the blond huffed, although he did look amused. The fact that he knew who John was didn't really surprise him; Sherlock had had a name, a reputation, and people mostly still associated him with the detective. John tutted and shook his head, not giving in. “Rank or no rank, you should listen to a doctor, Mr...”

“Colonel Moran. Sebastian Moran,” came the gruff, reluctant addition to his sentence, and the men shook hands. John's eyes lit up in recognition after having searched his brain, lips curling up in a small grin. “The Crackshot Colonel, look at you. Going down with the flu in dreary old London, such a shame.”

“It's a cold, Three-Continents-Watson,” Sebastian sneered playfully, flatting down his blonde hair. “And at least I didn't get shot like a twat.”

“A flu-shot would have done you some good, though,” was John's deadpanned answer, his grin widening as Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Stop being so stubborn, just let me have a look at it. I'm not going to lock you up in some hospital.”

There was a moment of silence where the two stared each other down, Sebastian's bright eyes narrowing as John cocked his eyebrow. Eventually Sebastian sighed and gave in, although reluctantly. “Alright, fine. I'll walk you home, and you can check me up. That's all you're getting.”

“That's all I'm asking for,” John mused, secretly amused with the entire situation as he led the way, out of the grocery store and onto the streets of London. It was nice to joke around like this. It was even better that someone was actually treating him like a human being instead of some pitiful idiot. Even his leg felt better as he walked back to Baker Street with the tall blond next to him; he felt lighter than he had done in weeks. Moran was a fellow soldier, and John felt that the man understood, that he knew what he needed.

“You know, if you wanted to see me topless, you could have just said so.”

The remark was sudden, out of the blue; it shook him out of his thoughts, and John couldn't help but laugh out loud, shaking his head as he sniggered. Just what he needed, indeed.


End file.
